Night Of Knives Part 29

Veronica's throat is aflame with thirst, and her stomach quickens at the thought of food.

Jacob hesitates. "Can we trust them? They're war vets. What if they..."

"What? Poison us? Don't be ridiculous," Veronica snaps, exasperated. "They're not the enemy. They're just people. If they wanted to come after us they'd just do it now. And I don't think I can talk much longer if I don't get something to drink. Tell him we accept."

Lovemore nods and speaks to the old man in Shona.

A crowd of children follow them as they continue to the house, which is in a half-rotted state, almost devoid of furniture and used largely for storage. The large ground-floor room off the entrance is inhabited by rusting tools and half-deflated cornmeal sacks marked by the depredations of vermin. There is obviously no power or running water any more, and without those, Veronica supposes African shelters are preferable to a big European-style house. Food is still prepared and washed on the kitchen's counters and sinks, but the cooking is done on an open fire in the back garden outside the kitchen. The dining room is dominated by a magnificent mahogany table, probably too big to have been removed from the house. The homemade wooden stools that now surround the table are crude but st.u.r.dy. Veronica wonders what the upstairs are like, if the bedrooms are used for anything or have simply been abandoned.

She greedily accepts a pot of tea and metal cup and promptly burns her tongue, unable to wait to quench the edge of her thirst. She drinks four more cups before her body's sharp need for water begins to dull and awareness of her surroundings return.

The room is full of people, most of them children, sitting on the stools and the floor, or leaning against the walls. Women bustle in the kitchen. Lovemore talks in laconic Shona with the war vets' patriarch and two other men. The children surround Veronica and Jacob, cl.u.s.tered around and under the table. A few of the more daring reach out to touch them before jumping back and giggling. Veronica smiles at them awkwardly. At least they do not have the distended bellies of the ill-fed, and their eyes are bright and lively. She wonders how many of them were born with HIV. According to Lysander more than one in three adult Zimbabweans has the virus.

The meal is preceded by a woman who circles among the diners with a bar of soap and pitcher of water; Veronica uses most of a pitcher to wash her hands. The food, which Lovemore calls sadza sadza, is ground cornmeal garnished with tomato sauce and salt; a little like pocho pocho, only better. It is brought in from outside in a huge serving bowl, dished out onto metal pans, and eaten with one's right hand. It isn't much, but Veronica devours two platefuls and is ready to give the house three Michelin stars when she is done.

"When do you think the army will get here?" Jacob asks.

Lovemore frowns. "It depends on how they search. Perhaps this afternoon. Perhaps as late as tomorrow, with the broken bridge."

"And then they'll know where we're going."

Lovemore considers. "These people may not speak. They too have been betrayed by the government. When they came here and took the property from the whites, Mugabe and the war-vet leaders promised them they would keep the power running, they would build schools and clinics, there would be taxi services every day, they would be given seeds and farming tools. Then the leaders went away and nothing happened. Now they have been abandoned. They say they don't want to stay. But they don't have any money or anywhere else to go. They are victims as much as anyone else."

A very bold little girl, about six years old, leaps up into Jacob's lap. For a second he freezes, he doesn't know what to do, and Veronica suppresses a chuckle. The girl puts her arms around Jacob and her face against his chest. After a moment he drapes an awkward arm around her shoulders. The girl says something Veronica doesn't understand, and much of the room laughs, including Lovemore.

"She said you smell funny and you should take a bath," Lovemore says, smiling.

Jacob chuckles. "Not a bad idea."

"I don't think we should use their water," Veronica objects. "They don't have much. They've already done a lot for us. And we don't have time."

Jacob nods. "Ask him when we can take the oxcart."

Lovemore and the old man bargain in a good-natured way, as the rest of the room chuckles and catcalls along, until Lovemore puts his hands up in mock-surrender and speaks a word of agreement. Veronica has noticed Lovemore seems much more at ease speaking Shona than he does when he speaks English: it's almost like he has two different personalities, one relaxed and amused, the other serious and intense. The old man, who looks pleased, speaks to a man in his thirties, who gets up and leaves. Lovemore turns to Jacob and Veronica and says, "We will pay them thirty dollars. His son is going now to ready the cart."

A woman enters with a chipped bowl full of some small yellow fruit. Its taste is tart and sweet and it serves as a perfect dessert. Lovemore's eyes light up and he grabs an entire handful. The girl on Jacob's lap is obviously also an aficionado; Jacob and Veronica slip her a few extra and are rewarded by a gap-toothed smile.

"How many of them are sick?" Veronica asks, wondering if this girl contracted HIV from her mother at birth. Or even by other means. She has heard that a widespread African belief that s.e.x with a virgin cures AIDS has led to a horrific rise in child rape.

Lovemore shakes his head. "I can't ask. No one speaks of it. Even in the cities we don't speak of it, we don't get tested, we don't want to know. But in the cities at least we have food. Here it is worst of all. The sick cannot work the fields, so then there is hunger, and hunger makes the sickness even worse."

Veronica winces. A vicious-circle death spiral.

Jacob asks Lovemore, "Have you been tested?"

He frowns and admits, "No."

The patriarch's son returns to the dining room. Their ride is ready.

The whole community follows them out to the gravel road. The cart creaks, and rusty nails protrude from its wood, but it looks solid enough. The bull attached to it is another matter; old, so gaunt that its ribs are visible, walking with slow, fragile steps. Incentive will clearly not be a problem the driver holds one end of a cord lashed into a miniature noose around the bull's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es but Veronica wonders how much longer the beast can work before it simply falls over dead.

Lovemore produces thirty US dollars from an inner pocket. The old man examines the bills closely, smelling them and rubbing them between his fingers, before declaring them acceptable. Veronica, Jacob and Lovemore take their positions behind the driver, the same man who readied the cart. There is a moment of heartbreaking comedy when the girl who sat on Jacob's lap climbs up with them. She is pulled away dejected by a teenager who explains something apologetically to Lovemore before taking the little girl away.

"Her father died last year," Lovemore translates.

Veronica nods wordlessly. Jacob looks stricken. The driver flicks the reins, the gaunt bull begins to walk, and the car starts to creak and jostle forward. Veronica turns around and looks at the little girl with the gap-toothed smile. She isn't smiling now. Her eyes are big and full of tears. She watches Jacob depart like he was her last hope in all the world. Veronica tries to stop herself from wondering what will happen to the little girl. Nothing good will come of that.

The old bull trudges across Zimbabwe's sunburnt fields, past ruined fences and cl.u.s.ters of koppies. The dirt track is a thin line st.i.tched into a canvas of golden hills. Occasionally they rattle across dry watercourses on bridges made of planks. Dark morning clouds cl.u.s.ter in the sky, but dissipate as noon approaches. The cart b.u.mps and wobbles uncomfortably, and the planks they sit on are old and splintering. The sun is intense. Veronica wishes they had some sunscreen, especially for Jacob, his skin is very pale and he's already in rough shape, victim of concussion and exhaustion. Their driver, whose name they do not know, does not speak, seems almost to be in a trance. Veronica tries to follow his example.

Out of nowhere Lovemore says, contemplatively, "My father was born near here."

Veronica looks at him. He does not seem particularly inclined to add to the statement, so she asks, "But not you?"

"No. I grew up in the east, the Vumba, the highlands near Mozambique. The country is different there, very green. My father went east to work in the mines, and met my mother there."

"Where are they now?"

"Dead," he says. "My father in the civil war, he fought for Mugabe, he was a true war vet. My mother of sickness, last year."

Veronica doesn't ask which sickness. "I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "We all die. They had good lives."

"So you grew up out east?"

He hesitates. "When I was twelve I came to Bulawayo to live with an uncle. Then to Harare for university. I met Lysander there. After university I went back to the Vumba. I worked at a tourist lodge there. Then the crisis began, and there were no more tourists, no more work anywhere. I left the country. Many of us have, hundreds of thousands. Most to South Africa. I went to Botswana." Lovemore smiles wistfully, the first flicker of real emotion Veronica has seen on his face. "Into the desert, the Kalahari. I lived with the Bushmen there, the San, for two years. I learned from them how to hunt, how to live off the land. I wanted to become a licensed guide, to make money from tourists. Rich tourists leave big tips in hard currency, they give you gifts, they invite you back to their homes in Britain and America. And you are outside, in the bush, among the animals, doing the things I love. Guiding is the best job a man can have, for me. But they do not like Zimbabwe men in Botswana. Not at all. There were problems. There was a woman."

"There always is," Jacob interjects, smiling.

"There was terrible trouble." Lovemore reaches up unconsciously and touches the scar on his cheek. "Two men died. I was nearly killed. I cannot go back to Botswana. I had to return to my country. I was lucky I found Lysander. In Zimbabwe today, even someone like me, a university graduate, must have a second job, a hard-currency job, or a relative who sends forex from abroad, only to survive. You have seen."

Veronica nods. "We have seen."

Their conversation lapses. Veronica tries to picture what Zimbabwe was like ten years ago, when it was one of the most advanced countries in Africa, full of hope for the future. It's difficult to imagine.

The sun is directly overhead when she sees power lines about a mile away. A road; and a chance that soldiers will be there waiting for them. Not much they can do if so. Veronica hopes their long detour has taken them away from the army's search zone.

There is a single building where the dirt trail, deeply furrowed with many cart tracks, meets the paved one-lane road. There are no soldiers in sight. In fact there is nothing else in sight; no other buildings or vehicles, no people. It reminds Veronica a little of Hopper's famous Mobilgas painting.

The building is a combination general store, post office, and taxi shelter. It has a neon sign in its window, and just inside its door there stands a gleaming fridge adorned with the Coca-Cola logo. The fridge holds plenty of Fanta but no c.o.ke. No one is inside but the store's proprietor, a paunchy man sitting on a stool behind his modern cash register. He looks suspiciously at Lovemore, Jacob and Veronica as they enter. Bright posters advertising Peter Stuyvesant and Madison cigarettes hang on the walls, as does, surreally, a surfing poster from South Africa. A paper sign taped above an empty desk indicates that the post office is open Mondays and Fridays. The shelves are barren in patches, but still sell a wide a.s.sortment of crisps, chocolates, toiletries, canned foods, bread and sacks of rice and cornmeal.

The man behind the counter frowns at Lovemore's offer of US dollars. Eventually he agrees to exchange Zim dollars, but only at the official government rate printed in the week-old Zimbabwe Herald he digs out from beneath his desk. They buy chocolate and Fantas, for themselves and for their driver, but when they emerge from the store the cart is already gone. If Veronica squints she can see a disappearing dark smudge where the cart track climbs back into the fields.

"No Milo chocolate," Lovemore looks with some disappointment at the Snickers in his hand.

"Is that good?" Jacob asks.

Lovemore looks at him as if he just asked if water was wet. "Don't you have Milo chocolate in Canada and America?"

Jacob and Veronica admit they don't. Lovemore shakes his head sadly at their deprivation and bites gloomily into his Snickers. They sit down outside, in an open-walled shade structure made of metal legs and a canvas top. Between bites, Lovemore explains that the store owner said a taxi the word means here what matatu matatu does in Uganda - to Bulawayo will soon arrive. From Bulawayo there is a bus to Chitungwiza, a towns.h.i.+p only miles from Harare. There they should be safe, at least for now. does in Uganda - to Bulawayo will soon arrive. From Bulawayo there is a bus to Chitungwiza, a towns.h.i.+p only miles from Harare. There they should be safe, at least for now.

The taxi will come from the east, but they watch the west. Not that there is anything they can do if they see soldiers approaching. Veronica feels much stronger than she did at dawn, but she knows she has no more long pursuits left in her, and Jacob and Lovemore are in worse shape yet.

The taxi comes before the army. Its white exterior is mottled with rust, its winds.h.i.+eld is covered with spiderweb cracks, and its roof supports a toppling pyramid of baskets, boxes and sacks, all secured with fraying yellow rope. Lovemore is prepared to pay twenty American dollars apiece for their seats, but there is no need, only twelve of its sixteen s.p.a.ces are inhabited.

Veronica squeezes herself into the back row, which she shares with a tall man in a s.h.i.+rt and tie, a gaunt teenage mother with two infants, and a fat woman in bright robes, all of whom seem entirely incurious about their new fellow-travellers. Jacob takes the seat in front of her, which folds into the minibus's single aisle. Its mechanism is broken and he has to sit at an angle, crammed next to three lean men in dirty clothes. Veronica can smell gasoline. The tiny storage area behind the back seat contains two full yellow jerrycans. She hopes they don't crash.

They drive for an hour, dropping off and picking up a few pa.s.sengers in empty fields en route, before merging onto a heavily trafficked and potholed two-lane road. Here their driver accelerates until he is driving as if on speed and pursued by the devil, overtaking slower traffic from both sides. They zoom past roadside vendors selling jars of wild honey and bowls of bushfruit. They pa.s.s through small towns whose brick houses and smartly painted stores are beginning to sag and peel. The one police roadblock is so unexpected that Veronica doesn't even have time to be frightened; they are waved through by the time she sees the uniforms. She supposes no one was expecting them, or indeed any whites, to come via taxi.

Her brief impression of Bulawayo is of a city of wide boulevards, department stores and green parks. The streets are bustling with pedestrians but almost empty of vehicular traffic. The bus station is big and bustling, and the bus they transfer onto creaky but comfortable. It leaves when full, including a good thirty people standing in the aisle, Veronica is relieved they came early enough enough to get seats. She sits beside a window, next to Jacob, just behind Lovemore. By the time it rolls out of Bulawayo and onto the Harare road, twilight is dissipating into night.

"I thought they'd catch us," Veronica says wonderingly.

Jacob nods. "We got lucky with that cart ride. And it's not the whole Zimbabwe Army looking for us, just Gorokwe's troops, unofficially. Lovemore says his supporters are mostly here and in the east of the country, he doesn't have much influence in Harare. If we get to Harare we should be OK."

"I hope Lysander got out."

"I'm sure he did. He knows what he's doing. He's been here forever, he has lots of friends here."

Veronica frowns. She doesn't think that counts for much here and now, not with so much at stake. And if Lysander is gone their only friend is Lovemore. "Let's hope so."

Jacob shrugs. "Que sera sera. I'm beginning to understand the famous African fatalism, you know?" I'm beginning to understand the famous African fatalism, you know?"

Veronica does. It feels less and less like she has any influence on the direction her life will take. She will find out tomorrow whether she will live another day, whether she will ever escape home, and those answers will depend on chance and on others, not on herself. But at least she is still here, battered and exhausted but also alive and free, at least for now. She closes her eyes and lets the swaying motion of the bus rock her to sleep.

Veronica opens her eyes to the dawn sun through the dew-streaked window. The first thing she sees is a hand-painted CHITUNGWIZA NO. 1 BUTCHER sign above a dozen b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.ses hanging on hooks. As she watches, civilization slowly grows denser: filthy shantytowns, busy shopping streets, long rows of tiny brick houses, warehouses and workshops, open-air markets, all jumbled together like a madman's jigsaw puzzle. Ditches full of plastic bags and rotting trash cut through muddy vacant lots cratered like World War I no-man's-land. Pools of dirty water, obviously sewage leaks, molder in culverts and trenches crossed by improvised bridges made of planks or rusting pipes.

Chitungwiza's taxi park is a huge dirt field surrounded by barbed wire. Lovemore, Jacob and Veronica emerge from their taxi, admit they are going to Harare, and are immediately and not quite forcibly hustled to another vehicle which then hangs about for forty minutes, waiting to fill, before embarking on the thirty-minute ride to Harare.

En route, Lovemore says, "Look over there. That is Zimbabwe."

Veronica looks over and sees a mostly flat field, studded with granite boulders, strewn with trash, rubble, tufts of gra.s.s, and occasional one-room tin-roofed shacks.

"That was a big commercial farm, maize and potatoes, some tobacco. A white farmer. Five years ago the war vets came and stole it from him. After they took the land they started putting up buildings. Little houses, vegetable gardens, there was a market, all this land was covered with them, people everywhere. And then, earlier this year, the government, the same government that put them there, sent in bulldozers and flattened everything, destroyed everything, threw them all off the land. Operation Murambatsvina Operation Murambatsvina. That means 'clean up the trash.' Thousands of houses, whole little towns, trading stalls, markets, all over the country, all destroyed. Because the war vets were becoming powerful. No one is allowed to be powerful. No one but Mugabe."

Harare proper is a strikingly pretty city, well-watered and full of greenery, its major streets lined by flowering trees that turn them into purple- and orange-latticed tunnels. The downtown towers are skysc.r.a.pers, by African standards. The city buzzes with traffic. They reach Harare's downtown taxi park at midmorning.

"We made it," Veronica says, not quite believing her own words, as they stand in Harare's central taxi park, stretching their cramped and battered limbs. Around them the capital's skysc.r.a.pers and shopping complexes stretch in every direction. The streets throng with traffic, and pedestrians hustle through the taxi park. Denizens of Harare, in the way of big-city people everywhere, move much faster than their rural cousins.

"Where now?" Jacob asks, yawning.

"Avondale," Lovemore says, which means nothing to them. "You will wait. I will seek out Lysander."

Avondale appears to be a mall full of white people. Veronica finds being among a white majority, for the first time since she came to Africa, a little shocking and disturbing. Lovemore leaves them at an Italian coffee shop that would not look out of place in San Francisco.

"Stay here," he says. "I will try to find Lysander. If he is gone I will find his friend Duncan. I will come back and we will take care of you. You will be safe."

"How long do you think you'll be?" Veronica asks.

Lovemore hesitates. "One hour. Not more."

He limps away.

One hour falls past, and then a second, and then a third.

The cappuccino is excellent. The peoplewatching is interesting. The movie theatre, supermarket, fast-food restaurant, ice-cream stall and Internet cafe in the mall are refres.h.i.+ng and enticing. But as time trickles onwards, and Lovemore fails to reappear, a numb dread begins to take root in Veronica's gut and then to spread.

After the fourth hour she can no longer tell herself and Jacob that Lovemore has merely been delayed, that everything in Africa takes longer than you think, that he has just been held up. She is forced to begin to wonder what they can possibly do if he does not come back at all. They have ten US dollars and nowhere else to go.

As the fifth hour begins, she dares to say it: "He's not coming back. They got him."

Erid nods wordlessly.

"What do we do now?"

He shakes his head ruefully. "I've only got one idea left."

Chapter 34

Harare International Airport is a gleaming white elephant, an empty edifice of marble floors overseen by fading posters of Zimbabwe's various tourist destinations and the Big Five safari animals. The woman at the British Airways ticket window looks very bored. Jacob waits nervously while his Bank of Montreal MasterCard is processed, but to his great relief the woman returns to the window with two airline tickets.

Their plan is almost pathetically simple. Their last ten dollars bought them a taxi ride to the airport. British Airways flies overnight to Heathrow. Their status as Interpol fugitives will doubtless lead to detainment by British Immigration, but that's a chance they're willing to take. At least they'll be out of Africa and back in civilization. Arrest might even be a good thing; the light of publicity will s.h.i.+ne on their trumped-up accusations of homicide, and may even reveal the truth. Their notoriety as former Congo hostages won't hurt either.

All they have to do is get past Zimbabwe Immigration and onto the plane. It's possible that their names have already been flagged, that they will be arrested for Interpol's sake - but the more Jacob thinks about it, the less likely that seems. Zimbabwe isn't exactly a poster-child member of the international community. There's a good chance they don't even receive Interpol alerts. And even if they are arrested by Mugabe's police, even that isn't worst-case; they are, after all, bizarre as it still seems, trying to save Mugabe's life.

Armed with their tickets, they walk through the cavernous arrivals hall to a small outdoor observation platform above the runway. There is no one else sitting at the wrought-iron tables and chairs. They have just enough money left to order a single c.o.ke from the girl behind the small snack bar. Jacob hopes there isn't a departure tax.

They sits and look out on the runway. Jacob's heart convulses when he sees a black army helicopter in the distance but it is flying away from them. He supposes its presence is normal, this is a military airbase too. It occurs to him that back in Canada today is Remembrance Day.

The only other craft in sight is a narrow white 727 parked next to the runway. After a moment a slow smile spreads across Jacob's face. He knows this legendary airplane, he remembers reading about its story with great interest: it once carried sixty South African mercenaries who stopped here a few years ago to pick up weapons from Zimbabwean co-conspirators, en route to foment a coup in oil-rich Equatorial Guinea. The mercenaries were captured, arrested, jailed, and eventually deported; the airplane remains in legal limbo. Jacob is oddly comforted by this reminder that he and Veronica aren't the only Harare Airport pa.s.sengers to have been in dire and melodramatic straits.

The gla.s.s doors that lead into the airport open. When Jacob sees the man who murdered Derek step out of those doors, followed by several armed and uniformed soldiers and then Athanase the interahamwe leader himself, he thinks at first that this has to be some kind of nightmare, a terrible dream-vision, can't possibly be reality. He and Veronica stay seated, frozen by the sheer impossibility of this horror, as the soldiers and casually dressed interahamwe surround them.

"Jacob Rockel," Athanase says, smiling thinly. "Veronica Kelly. We meet again. Enchantee pour le deuxieme fois Enchantee pour le deuxieme fois."